why ki tazaa khabar
why ki tazaa khabar is a new blog that saw the light of day on March 17th. The idea was mooted by the following words sent by a long time supporter: I find a major problem which is lack of information… my only problem is that I never get any information about that project. how that project is going on..how are kids in that project…did they do any progress..how is my contribution being helpful to them…how many teachers are there in the project etc etc.
Being one who has the tendency of easily slipping into comfort zones – i.e. taking for granted what goes on smoothly – this was a wake up call. I understand my friend’s concern as once upon a time I did send out regular individual emails!
But as the project grew and so did everyday challenges, individual updates became rarer as I believed – maybe wrongly – that the blogs and updates on the site were adequate information.
Having decided right from the outset that I would not waste my funders money on heavy administrative structures, and having also chosen to employ only community people who were not savvy enough to write in English, I was left with little choice. I could have sent a mail explaining this but I just sank into a comfort zone.
The wake up call that landed in my inbox jolted me into the need of finding a viable solution that would dovetail into the why spirit and give a day-to-day account of what happens at pwhy.
The way out I hit upon was a blog in roman Hindi in the words of those who were directly involved with running pwhy. So why ki tazaa khabar will be rani and shamika’s blog in their own words and will give all a different view of pwhy.
It is the first time shamirani – the name they chose – are setting out on such a venture and if you feel it is something hat needs to be encouraged please do drop a mail to
shambakshou@yahoo.co.in.
from milk vans to call centre cars
I have always been a morning person and a light sleeper. Yet for years I never woke up before 4 or 4.30 am. If I let my memory travel back I realise that often it is was the cling clang of the Delhi Milk Scheme vans that used to wake me up. Sometimes a crow or a bird preceded it by a few minutes.
Lately I have found myself waking up as early as 2 am jolted from my sleep by the sound of a speeding vehicle. We live close to a flyover and in the dead of night every sound does get amplified. True that in yore years too sometimes their were cars whizzing past, maybe on their way to the airport, or Saturday party goers getting back home but it was an occasional sound that did not get passed the deep sleep one was in. It is the everyday sounds that reach that part of your brain like the milk van or the faithful crow.
Irked by this new phenomena that was now translating itself into dark circles under the eyes and an irritable Maam’ji, I decided to try and decipher the source of this new late night occurrence. It did dawn one such night: these were the BPO or call centre staff vehicles crisscrossing our city to meet their unearthly schedules.
A lot has been said about the effects of these new working hours that need to meet different time zones and turn night into day. many young people are paying the price and as is often the case, the once lucrative and upmarket job options is now being shunned by some and is slowly reaching the lower strata of society. Today many of our ex students work in call centres as the job profile is scaled down to meet the ever exceeding demand.
Doc P, our family doctor recounted how on a trip to the US he needed to change a booking and dialled a number answered by a young lad who was desperately trying to communicate in his newly acquired American Hinglish; no matter how many times Doc tried to coax him into speaking in Hindi, the lad held on: needless to say the booking was never changed.
While travelling to pwhy everyday one sees new hoardings for BPO training institutes that guarantee perfect English in 6 weeks or so. I guess they must be lucrative as new ones appear ever so often.
I guess I wil need to invest in a good pair of earplugs!
Sapna’s mom
To me she will always be Sapna’s mom though her name is Bimla and she is also Monty’s mom. She came to us almost 4 years ago carrying Sapna who was 5 but could not even hold her head, let alone stand. She used to drop by sometimes dragging her feet and looking far beyond her twenty something.
Slowly her story unfolded and we were shocked to learn that a still born child has resulted in a prolapsed uterus, the reason for her awkward gait. I first wrote about he almost exactly three years ago as she lay in hospital where she had initially gone to get her uterus removed but landed up in having to get a heart valve replaced. The uterus lay forgotten.. though visible!
Today three years later she again lies in a hospital this time finally free of her agony and shame. her story could have been shared many times as so much happened in the intervening years, but somehow I felt that the moment was not the right as for her closure only came today.
Bimla is 28 though she looks 128. Married to a man that not only does not care for her but is also often jobless, she bore with the resilience of Indian women a fate no one can envy: a retarded first born that was seen as a curse, a second child that was often ill, a mother in law that despised her but on whom she was dependent, nothing looked right for this woman. More was to come as her husband was diagnosed with a congenital heart problem. So the surgery she needed was delayed as she had to replace him as a dishwasher in a small eatery…
In the meantime however Sapna started walking and saying a few words and Monty got better and became a regular at pwhy! Bimla can infuriate even the most tolerant person as she often does not react to things but simply accepts her fate; I guess it is her way of dealing with what she knows she cannot change. I guess she has perfected the art of living one day at a time, and does not or rather cannot allow herself the luxury to look at the future.
Last week she came by and a look at her swollen face and body shook us out of the torpor she had manged to instill in us: we decided to get her hysterectomy done come what may as were anything to happen to her her innocent kids lives would be shattered. Luckily Sabrina and Chris were kind enough to help us.
Needless to say that it was not easy to get her husband to come and sign the consent forms but we managed though once again no one fromm her family stayed with her, it was little Deepak’s grandmother who offered to be there, another pwhy miracle.
For us it was just the question of saving Sapna’s mom, as little Sapna is considered a burden for all and only has her mom on her side.
penhandling for a smile
I have been in the begging business for seven long years.
If you look at the word ‘beg’ you find the following synonyms: panhandle, ask for money, seeking charity, seek alms.. not very gratifying and yet that is what I have been up to. I have used every trick in my book to try and persuade people to open their purse strings and reach out to help another. I presume one could pun a little and substitute pen for pan! And if you wonder why I have been in this trade at a time when my peers play cards and attend hen parties, well simply because what is thrown in my pan somehow miraculously transforms it self in incredible smiles: the smile of a child without hope, of a child who for the first time has passed an exam, the child whose heart is now fixed…
It has been a bittersweet journey as often those who could give never did and those who could not were the most generous. These years of soliciting were replete with lessons of life, some disturbing and annoying and some overwhelming and moving.
A recent post sought help for our dear ghaziabad girls. One of the most touching offers was from someone who lives thousands of miles away and whom I have never met but feel I have always known. The reason I share this story here is that her gesture epitomises the essence of what giving means. It is easy to give when you have a lot to spare or when you get tax or other benefits such as your name on page 3! But when you give most of what has come your way after hours of toiling in spite of excruciating pain, then that gift is invaluable and cannot be matched by another.
I will just her words speak for her:
Please, please send me an address, to send money towards the girls care? As mentioned, I just received notice, that I am to be paid for a logo-design I made for a male musician’s digital music business in the USA. He expects I will have this, on tomorrow or next day.. there is enough, for lee and for the girls!! I would love to help in this way, rather than send soap and things, the money could buy them there… please let me help them? Anou, I grew up in abject poverty; wearing panties with pins because they were my older sisters, handed down to me(3rd daughter).. I looked very much like those girls in the pictures… we were homeless once, and malnourished.. we were cold in winter, and lived on fresh berries, and root-vegetables in summer…. I know the pain of poverty, hunger, and the judgement on us by our community.. one does not forget their humble beginnings, so If my few dollars, will buy a box of bars of soap, or some much-needed supplies for the girls female needs.. I would be the lucky one to do this!! I’ll be waiting for an address…
What can I say but that when that gift comes, I will hold it close to my heart and send a silent prayer of gratitude for having had the privilege of receiving such a gift.
In this world where money means all, there are still are people who show us that there is something far more important called love! A lesson many of us forget..
little red bag revisited
I wrote about this little red bag many moons ago! After delivering its contents to Utpal’s dorm in school, it returned empty and sat in the linen cupboard waiting for its next mission. A few days back I retrieved it from the top shelf .
Om march 17th it will set off again to Uptal’s school and for there will accompany him to Karam Marg where little Mr p will spend a whole week with his mom and his sister. I have been filling the little bag with many things: clothes for him, and some for his mom and sis’, a pot of his favourite chocolate spread, and a few toys as it is his birthday on the 20th, one we will all be celebrating with him at K marg.
What an incredible journey this five year old has made in one year. His last birthday was celebrated in his home with his parents and some of us and I still remember how happy he was with the battery operated motorbike he rode with glee. A few days later his crestfallen face said it all: his bike had been sold for a few pegs of hooch. A week later hell broke loose as his mom sunk as low as one can imagine and he watched helpless from the arms of an unknown man.
In one day he lost everything his home, the presence of his mom and the man who he called papa.
But Utpal is one of a kind and he bore it all with dignity well beyond his age. He spent time at home and then on a fateful July day his bag and him walked through the gates of his new school where he walked into every one’s heart.
Nest week after a long long year utpal will sleep in his Mommy’s arms. For me it is probably one of the best moments of my life as I see this little family scattered helter skelter for reasons beyond any one’s control reunite amidst the greenery and the ducks of karm gaon.
I have filled his little bag with surprises and hope that he will be reminded of his maam’ji who loves him so desperately till I can hold him and whisper words of love in his ears.
greenBlues
I have been harping about the importance of environment issues, the plastic menace, the lurking water wars. I am the first to try and point this out when I wear my project why boss hat! Imagine my surprise when this morning in in the privacy of my bathroom I found myself lost in thought brushing my teeth with the tap running.
As I turned it off, I wondered how many times I must have done this offer, or for that matter how many times must I have not done what I preach. Many must have seen the now sated skit on environment where the page 3 lady is writing a speech on the importance of saving trees and throwing innumerable sheets of paper in the waste basket.
With great aplomb I had launched a programme with project why kids called once is not enough! It aimed at teaching children to use each thing twice: newspapers, plastic bottles, plastic bags etc. It was a great programme but somehow got lost in transit. Maybe because it was another instance of not practicing what one preaches and thus did not come naturally.
Our generation was brought up in believing that water was a perennial resource, and probably it was for those who lived in water rich areas. respect and awareness of the importance of water existed even in yore years.
My mother whose maternal grandparents lived in the city of Jodhpur often reminisced about how water was a rare and expensive commodity, and how women had mastered the art of using infinitesimal quantity of water for all their daily chores. Hair was plaited into tiny plaits and then woven into a mat on the top of the head, and washed every fortnight only. Mama and her brothers came from a city were water was in abundance and could never quite get used to the Jodhpur ways.
She also told me that during the marriage of her parents, her grandfather had spent huge amounts of money on water. The groom’s party had come from Benares by train. The train had been delayed and the auspicious time had gone by. The priests had then decreed that the next propitious time would be 10 days later. Now the marriage party could in no way return to Benares so stayed on, and as custom has it, all expenses had to be borne by the girls’ family. So the marriage party stayed and used water in large quantities. Frequent baths, great clothes washing sessions and of course great waste of water that was brought on camel back from wells situated miles away, and costing the earth!
A friend and mentor told me that the biggest culprit in the waste water saga was piped water and taps in each home. If we had to walk, albeit a few meters and draw water from a well/tank we would understand how precious it was. Many do not know about the violent fights that happen each day at water points in slums. One again we live in the misplaced idea that this cannot happen to us.
In days when plastic bags did not exist, women carried shopping bags, some so tiny that they could be slipped in a pocket. Few years back when people went abroad, we asked them to bring back the plastic bags they got in shops, as these were non-existent in India. Today plastic bags are everywhere and have replaced our traditional leaf wrapping. My daughter has been waging a war against plastic bags at home, and even pointed out that on some days more than 30 or 40 such bags entered our home. She practices what she preaches and has to battle with shopkeepers who often have wrapped your purchase in 1, 2, 3 bags before you have had time to react. True that we forget to carry bags, but were we to apply the once is not enough principle, then you ask the shopkeeper for an old and used bag hence delaying its reaching the garbage dump.
Last week drove out of Delhi into tiny villages and was appalled to see the mound of plastic that lay practically everywhere and even close to green fields. The day is not far when good agricultural land will turn barren courtesy plastic.
I is not easy to change mindsets, and lifelong habits, but the onus lies with us who are educated and can foresee the disaster that looms ahead. For me this morning’s incident has been a wake up call on two fronts: one to make a conscious effort in my own home even it it means sticking post its everywhere, the other is to revive the once is not enough project with all pwhy children.
one of a kind
Yesterday my dear friend North sent a mail sharing her panic about her son Lee whose building was on fire. I cannot go to him, I cannot hold him, nor can I send him money to replace his loss’s… we both need prayers of courage and strength..
These were the words of a caring mother and they touched my heart all I could do was pray. A later mail told us Lee was safe.
North is a special person and she has been with me in all my difficult moments holding my hand so that i would not give up. In my battle to save utpal, she stood by me like a rock. She is one of a kind and never ceases to amaze me.
So when the mail seeking help for the ghaziabad girls reached her inbox this exceptional woman cast her own problems aside and immediately offered to help.
Spirit North is one of a kind. Invisible people we often fail to see as we do not know how to open the eyes of our heart and often look for the trivial, missing the essential. It is only in the last few years when I set foot on planet why that I was able to start seeing with my heart. If planet why is vibrant and ticking today it is because of many exceptional people who have reached out when they did not need to, and more than money which seems to be the only touchstone of our era, they reached out with their love and support.
To all of you who made my dream a reality I say thank you for being there!
a bedtime affair..
Dropping by Pwhy blog has become a bedtime affair now wrote a friend all the way from China. and goes on to say: and while I know every day probably passes quite like the other, do hope to hear more abt the pwhy kids and their families on your blog.
I stand corrected!
I have often spoken about the lure of comfort zones and yet I seem to be sinking into them so Ziong mail was a wake up call and caught me once again not doing what I preach. It is true that for quite some time I have been busy remaking the world forgetting all the little miracles that quietly slip by our planet.
So time to make amends and share some of them here. I must confess that I too fell prey to the very human habit we have of blowing up stray incidents and forgetting everyday occurrences. I often give pwhy kids the example of how we as families always never fail to remind our moms/wives about the extra salt in the food that may have happened once but conveniently forget to praise her for all the other 364 days when the food was great! I too have in the past few days shared more of the sporadic forgetting the habitual.
It is true that any perception of threat, particularly when one is responsible of so many innocent lives, should be taken seriously but come to think about it these are made by cowards who rarely translate their words into action! My compulsive concern on the glaring differences between the two Indias has also taken a lot of space, though I do believe that it is something we need to address sooner than later. However this should not have led to my not sharing some of the extra-ordinary moments of life on our planet.
That we have entered our seventh year beating all odds is in itself laudable. Once gain over 400 kids will not drop out of school and this too for the seventh year running. Some will op their class, some will leave school armed with a certificate and honourable marks. More than 50 children who did not go to school will come April join the ranks of school going children instead of landing up as child labour.
Our special kids to are learning at their own speed. They had their in house designer exams and were also able to show their results to their parents. Rinky has finished her beauty course and will soon get a job, who cares if she is deaf and dumb. Moreover their stitching classes are going on well and Shaheeda and Neha even made their own party suits. Coking classes are a great favourite and last week an incredible rice pulao was made by these children of a lesser God for guests from across the sea. It was heart wrenching to see Shalini in her apron waiting for an sign of appreciation and turning all red when she got a hug from Xavier.
And that is not all Nanhe who even I had given up on is now back in class, Deepak bounces along with his new heart the days of his near death experience forgotten and his huge scar healed. Anisha and Anil will be operated upon and Sapna’s mom will finally have her prolapsed uterus fixed after 4 harrowing years.
And there is more. Planet Why had many special visitors from the world over. And in spite of our being media shy the Lok Sabha channel had a 30 minutes programme on us while NDTV came to talk to the kids about their experience in school.
We also got news of our dear ghaziabad girls something we had been waiting for for a long time.
I am glad Ziong woke me from my long slumber!
i’m an alien
I’m an alien I’m a legal alien sang Sting in his hit song of the eighties entitled an Englishman in New York. I had forgotten this song but it sprung from the recesses of my memory as I sat in front of my TV, remote in hand switching channels in the hope of finding one that was not airing a cricket related programme.
From talk shows, to replay of games, to expert comments, to ads and even the resident tarot card reader most non movie channels irrespective of the language were spouting cricket. And this was just the beginning of a long spell: India was hit by cricket fever. Notwithstanding social or economic origin, for the next few weeks there were two Indias: the one that loved the game and the few like me who did not. So for the coming days one had to.
Many years ago TV did not exist and everyone followed the game on transistors sets. During match playing days one often walked into banks or other public offices and waited a long time to get attended particularly when a star cricketer was playing. Then came TV a prize possession! We had one at home and on match day or Hindi movie day many from the neighborhood gathered in our home. It was a motley crowd of all ages with caste or creed no bar. During commercial breaks or the news bulletin tea and snacks did the rounds amidst much fun and laughter. Those were the days when you had no choice but had to see what was proffered and those evenings were more a eclectic social gathering, the movie did not matter. Everyone was there, the neighbours, the servants, the ironing man and his family and as my parents left the large bay windows open many joined in, first reluctantly then as regulars.
All that has changed, television is in almost every home even the poorest ones. And for the days to come almost everyone will be watching cricket. But unlike yore years each one will remain in his home and though a common thread will run through the land as it cheers for India, it will remain invisible and unseen.
And the likes of me, who did partake of the treat earlier as it held so much more than a game, will sing softly I’m an alien, a legal alien..
mumbai footpaths
A mail dropped by recently in my mailbox. It opened with the words: I have been visiting Project Why for quite some time now and its quite interesting to know the way you take up issues. In fact I have been observing certain things out here in Mumbai but since I don’t have a blog that would bring up such issues I am writing it to you.
I gave myself a silent pat on my back before reading on, as somehow the 400 odd blogs that sit on this site were written in the hope that they would make a difference. Like many other things it was just that a hope against hope till Rachana’s mail came by. Suddenly what was till then a nebulous though took on a different hue and with it came the realisation of the responsibility that came with it.
This is what she wrote:
My office is located at Lower Parel in Mumbai, a corporate hub where you can find all sorts of offices. The primary concern I feel at this place that slowly and gradually people are occupying the footpaths as a living place. All shabby stuff is thrown here and there and they are doing all possible workouts from cooking to bathing. It becomes difficult especially for women out here to move on the footpath. More over the traffic on the roads is so heavy that it is very unsafe to walk on the road. Initially it was just two -three people who started living out there but now i can find almost 30-40 people in the area just opposite to the Lower Parel station and opp to Kamla mills ( where CNBC is located).
Most of these people that we want to wish away do play an important role in our lives though it may seem invisible or so essential that it has become a second habit. Just let your imagination run free and imagine life without these people. I do not know Mumbai but in Delhi they are the ones who give us most of our creature comforts and are available in the myriad of household emergencies we face.
For seven years I have lived amidst such people. What we forget is that they are just like us, have children to feed, educate and protect and dreams to fulfill, dreams that we often fuel without realising. They carry mobiles because greedy companies offer them special deals as they slowly get caught in the net of hire/purchase.
As civil society we have a responsibility towards these people and need to raise awareness on the issue of habitat for the poor which is a bomb waiting to explode!
reality check
An anonymous comment on a previous post– reality notes 2 – with you, for you, always – came as a bit of a jolt. It said: here is a bit of advice. Instead of running around like a plucked chicken trying to prove your point (and who knows what that is!), why don’t you hire your own security. Get some unemployed thugs to provide security for you. They are cheap and you won’t have these hassles in the future.
It was indeed a wake up call in more ways than one. I wish the person had not chosen to remain anonymous. It would have helped me assess whether the comment was laced with sarcasm or a genuine piece of advise. Notwithstanding both are equally disturbing.
I may seem at times to be running around like a plucked chicken. I guess most of us who try to beat the system in existence land up looking like that. Barring the initial years when we at pwhy were trying to find our feet and posed no threat to anyone, we have faced innumerable obstacles that took various avatars but had a single purpose: to get us to pack our bags and leave.
For us each obstacle came as a challenge and a vindication of our approach. If a tiny organisation like ours could disturb existing patterns than it meant that we were on the right track. To many we may just have looked like any education imparting organisation that dot our land, but it is actually a saga of whys, whats and hows bringing us slowly to one moot point: empowerment of the community. And to achieve this with a modicum we had to walk the long road, abide by existing rules and set an example that all could emulate.
So the point one has been trying to prove is that no matter what the odds, there exists a system albeit one that many prefer circumventing that works if one tries. One could have made one phone call and got the police station to accept the complaint, but that was not a solution available to all; however going to the higher authority is one that is there for all provided you are aware of it.
It would be naive of me to think that this is the last hurdle in my race. Many more will come and will have to be faced but each one will be a step in the right direction as it will show the way and may help others.
So there is a method in what seems my madness; but one your life beats at the rhythm of many others then all planning, no matter how well conceived, goes haywire and you just take things one step at a time, one day at a time.
Last but not the lest I need to react to what is suggested in the aforesaid comment: getting protection by hiring thugs. I would have preferred to dismiss this without a word but cannot. First and foremost no one is a thug by birth. We are collectively responsible for them becoming that. Then stooping down to the level of people one holds in contempt is not an acceptable solution. And last of all the solution proffered is again an individual one, what we seek at pwhy is solutions for each and every Indian.
reality notes 2 – with you for you always
As I had written in my previous post, I set out this morning with a well drafter complaint (courtesy my lawyer)to seek protection from those who are meant to give it to every citizen namely the Delhi Police whose motto we all know is with you, for you , always!
As a honest activist and proud Indian I decided to follow the procedure to the T and set out to the police post in Govindpuri. I had thought that lodging a complaint would be simple as it only required to be handed over.
The police station was abuzz with activity with men in uniform haring here and there. The antique walkies talkies were spouting incomprehensible words drowned in static. To my bewilderment no one seemed to care that we were there, let alone attend to us. One gathered that some high politician was visiting the area and hence everyone was required to be at the spot.
After some time someone deigned looking at our paper that was in English and legal jargon, and then passed it on to another. After some time we were told that they would not accept it as there were thousands of such complaints! In short they refused to take our simple complaint.
So after some cogitation and consultation with our lawyers we set out to the next authority namely the ACP Kalkaji after adding another letter stating how we had been refused our basic civic right. Our complaint was accepted by that office.
In hindsight it seemed the someone had called the police post to ensure that our complaint was not filed. This someone was part of the pack of wolves, probably the one who ensured good relationship with the local cops, the seedy nexus slowly revealed was beyond one’s imagination and yet so real to the India we live in.
So maybe I stand corrected as I have many times felt that education and a good command of English does open doors, Well it does, but not at the lower levels of the system where predators rule with impunity.
Now we sit and wait for the next assault armed with a copy of our complaint duly stamped in acknowledgement. with you for you always remain words with no meaning unless you are part of the nexus.
reality notes
I have often written about the hungry wolves that lurk in every corner trying to destroy any attempt that dares disturb the social balance they have set in place, no matter how lopsided it may be.
What is even more disturbing is that they succeed in a manner of speaking. Like all cowards they hit below the belt hoping to wear you down by their threats and abusive ways.
These predators often come in the garb of small trade unions or petty politicians who unfortunately are perceived to be powerful by the simple minds they control. A series of unfortunate consequences led one person to be convinced to file a frivolous case under the Shop and Establishments Act against our organisation. the bait was an enormous about of money dangled in front of a poor and gullible person.
The matter has been in the labour office for a while. As it seemed to sway in our favour, the pack resorted to vile tactics and yesterday threatened to send goondas to handle the issue and extort the money come what may. The threats were targeted at me in person and indirectly at the rest of the organisation.
I will be filing a complaint in the police station ad will carry on my work. However many questions come to mind. The bravado of an old woman is acceptable but can ask vulnerable people to do the same or can one put at risk children simply to make a point.
On the other hand any perception of fear would be a feather in the cap of our detractors. Does one pack up and go and thus write off the morrows of many innocent lives, or does one carry hoping for the best.
What is frightening in such matters is the attitude of the administration who fuels such frivolous cases and allows them to be filed for their own devious reasons. What is disquieting is the relentless way in which predators target even tiny organisations like ours whose sole purpose is to empower people.
What will happen this morning is yet to be seen, maybe nothing but that does not deflect from the reality of this new why that needs to be addressed.
Lost in translation…
remember these girls? Maybe not as our memories are short, and images get blurred or overtaken by others ones, particularly when the issue is not directly related to our lives.
Let me refresh your memories. these little girls are some of the children that invaded the privacy of our homes some months back as we all watched in temporary horror the plight of the 50 0dd girls who had been mercilessly abused by their holy caretaker.
For some time they made news till another horrific incident pushed them away. They made news till the administrative and judicial took over and locked them in another structure protected by impregnable walls. For some time we tried to keep their memory alive by trying to create a net support group but that too lost its drive as the girls seemed lost in some forbidden fortress.
One could not and did not give up. We tried relentlessly to find their whereabouts often without success till yesterday when this mail dropped in my inbox. It came from Anchal the young reporter who had broken the story:
hi there..long time..just got back from bareilly.. leaving for mathura tommorrow..the girls have been shifted to mathura, bareilly, lucknow and meerut.. to the suitable? homes..GOOD THINGS:the girls are much better off..no exploitation or abuse..regular doctor..loving and caring caretaker.. not all of them are very sensitive.. harmless though..are taught dancing.. singing..PROBLEMS:[1] the standard se for homes is just not good enough..[2] no education facility..[3] our effort should be to cure them.. no effort in that direction..[4] they need better beds.. even in the berilly home they sleep on the wooden cot..[5] they are kept clean but better toilets desperately needed..
[6] they are never taken out… authorities fear that they might run off and put them in trouble.. they don’t have a proper vehicle and security..met NHRC and lawyers today..it would be great if we can mobilise people and motivate them to donate..would be filing a complete story soon.. in about a day or two.. will let u know.. catch it.. will do it right before the next SC hearing.. shd.. do the mobilising then.. for larger impact..here’s my number: 9873139409..13 girls in: nari–niketan.. bareilly..27 in mathura..some in kids in lucknow..and are getting primary education.
the swami is stil in jail
I think it is time we wake up and do something. It is not a matter of charity but a way to redeem ourselves in our own eyes!
Give me another mandir!
Today was a special treat. A visit to Utpal’s school. Rishi was kind enough to set aside the rules to allow Xavier, Utpal’s cyberDad, a few stolen moments with the one he calls pepere in spite of the fact that school examinations were on.
It was a warm afternoon just tempered by a cool wind. We reached the school at 4pm shortly after the mandatory afternoon nap. We sat quietly in the Directors room though our hearts were beating a tad faster as we held back the question we were dying to ask : where is Utpal?
A few moments later a quit knock of the forbidding door and our little fellow appeared squeaky clean, in his track suit his hair well oiled and combed to a T. We sat in silence as he tiptoed in and stood near us. To Xavier’s how are you Utpal echoed a confident fine thank you Sir. Then after some time Utpal sought Rishi’s permission to show Javire the school, and off we went dying to be in a spot where we could finally hug him.
After a while Xavier fished out a little key chain with an Eiffel Tower and gave it to him. Utpal kept it in his hand as we ambled around the school. Then it was time to leave. In a quiet voice Utpal said: can I have another mandir (temple) for my friend?
It took us a minute to realise that the mandir he was referring to was the Eiffel Tower? He got one and walked away, without looking back as I wiped a silent tear from the corner of my eye.
not to be deterred
Once again, on a fine morning the students and staff of pwhy were greeted by a gaping hole in the wall of our Okhla centre. This is not the first time and probably not the last. Wonder who did it, some drunken lads for a bit of fun or some mischief maker. Who knows, and come to think about it who cares..
The Okhla lot are used to such acts and what caused anger and hurt at one time has almost become a game. No mason or expert is needed. The morning after the incident students carefully pick all the bricks and keep them safely inside the classroom. A call is made to the office to get the required amount of cement and the kids get down to the task of repairing the damage while onlookers watch them and perhaps amongst them those who committed the misdeed.
My heart fills with pride as I watch the kids at work as more than anything taught in books, they have learnt a great lesson in life: not to be deterred by acts committed by cowards.
united in .. death
Two deaths were reported in the press yesterday: one on the front page and the other in an inside one. Both were heinous crimes. Both stemmed out of some unfathomable quirk of the mind.
In one a ‘servant’ had simply killed a young boy and an old relative of the house he had worked in for 5 years for a few pennies. In the other a woman had hit her girl servant with a laundry bat resulting in her death.
These two incidents could be dismissed with the usual fleeting moment of sympathy or stupefaction and that is what most would have done. However if one dwells on them for some time, one realises that these extreme actions could well stem out of the endemic mistrust that is more and more prevalent between what I often refer to as the two Indias.
Over the years I have witnessed the rising contempt with which people who work for you are treated. A series of sad incidents have resulted in campaigns aimed at branding all house workers as probable suspects to be verified by the police. Often this leads to sweeping remarks about the origins of such people as is heard in the: I never employ someone from Bihar, Bengal or whatever else, in many a coffee mornings.
I myself shudder when pwhy kids refer to their pals as Biharis and cannot hide my smile when I retort : I too am a Bihari!
Coming back to the two incidents one may let one’s mind wander and imagine possible scenarios. In case 1 the 5 year old servant is said to have killed for money. Wonder whether he had asked for a loan and been rebuffed, or wonder whether he had been verbally abused or ill treated. In case 2 one can also ask one’s self what the young girl did to provoke such rage; did she burn an expensive outfit, or leave stains on a garment she had washed. To take the matter further one can ask whether the reactions would have been the same if the two protagonists had belonged to the same side of the fence: had the daughter burnt the garment or the son asked for a loan?
Justice will have to take its course and I hope that it will be as severe in both cases. But what is more important is to try and see why such incidents occur and to try and find long term solutions that are equitable. Branding all of one side of the fence will just lead to widening an already cavernous gap between the two Indias. We need to build bridges of trust and understanding, to share a little of what one has in plenty as only then will our morrows be safe.
holi hai!
In trying to explain the significance of holi to my foreign son-in-law I found myself searching the net as my knowlede did not go beyond the Prahlad-Hollika story. On this site, I read the follwoing: Originally the festival was primarily for the Shudras who were otherwise not allowed to participate in festivals. In ancient India too, this festival was celebrated as a day when people forgot caste and gender differences and were allowed many liberties, otherwise forbidden.
I do have vague memories of my childhood in my grandfather’s home when on that day those who worked in the house joined everyone in the lawns where holi was celebrated with great gusto. Flowers had been soaked overnight to provide a wonderful yellow brew, and colours were natural, sweets had been made at home too and many sherbets cooled in earthen pots. Some were forbidden to us ; guess they were the ones laced with bhang.
Then Holi became a day one dreaded as chemical colors, and all the filth imaginable were hurled at you even days before the festival. Like most festivals, the essence was forgotten.
I was glad to reconnect with the meaning of the festival and was happy to see that the little band that played holi in my garden reflected just that essence as all the Indias not to say the world were united in fun and spirit.
yet another tale of two indias
My meat seller and I go a long way, more than 30 years I guess! He is a gentle Muslim who runs a tiny shop in a close by market. Over the years much has changed and many shopkeepers have spruced up their shops bu not Salim whose establishment takes me back three decades as I walk into it. Spotlessly clean, with many sayings from the Holy Koran displayed in garish frames, the meat neatly displayed and the large wooden blocks on which he and his son transform the meat into the cuts you want. The same smile greets you each time you enter except when you get the cold snub which the now initiated old clients know as translating into: the meat is not good enough for you today, as you quietly beat a hasty retreat.
I have always enjoyed the few moments spent in this tiny shop, where time seems to have stopped long ago and forgotten values still hold high.
Holi is a festival when in North India many cook a meat dish that goes well with all the intoxicants consumed. So yesterday was busy time at my Friend Salim’s shop. Many ladies in bright clothes, a handful or servants from rich homes and innumerable phone calls with orders rapidly written on a tiny note pad.
As i waited my turn, I him if we was opened the next day which was Holi. he looked at me with a smile and said yes we are, as today it will be all the high clas people that buy their met but tomorrow we will be catering to the poor.
Yes everyone eats meat on Holi, but for those who have no refrigerators and who actually do not know how much would be left when the colours for the children have been bought, and the hooch of the day consumed. Salim keeps his shop open so that everyone can have a feat, albeit a tiny one!
Happy Holi!
a long ride to nowhere
On the day when millions of young Indians set out to write their class XII Board examinations, a TV channel aired the story of Samant Singh Rao, once a part time lecturer in Panna (Madhya Pradesh) and a proud recipient of two masters degree. A series of misfortunes led to his losing his job.
Armed with his degrees got after much toil, this son of a poor farmer set out to India’s capital city, confident that his education would get him a job. After a long search all he managed was to get a cycle rickshaw he now plies in the university area, and eeks a few thousand precious rupees that barely feed his two children back home. And to save his money, he simply sleeps on his rickshaw at night.
Samant Singh Rao is a living example of the of our state our education system where on the one hand education is branded as a panacea to all ills, while on the other useless degrees are handed out to unsuspecting candidates.
Samant Singh Rao has two Masters degree, one in history and the other in political science, and yet they seem to be useless in his quest to get a job. He is still holding on to his dreams, and maybe as a result of his brief appearance on TV someone may reach out to him. But what about all the others who clutch such degrees and wander the streets looking for employment.
We have had many come our way, and though they had the coveted piece of paper, they were often unable to pass the simple test we give any prospective teacher. And each time I come by a Samant Singh Rao, I feel terribly sad. I can imagine the hopes pinned on this child by parents who must have worked hard to ensure that their child gets an education, and can almost sense the pride they must have felt when the child succeeded in one exam after the other. And yet at the end of the day they it seems like a long journey to nowhere, almost an absurd play that Brecht could have written.
Third rate education is an impediment as often there is no going back to where you came from. Somehow the years spent learning have robbed of the right to revert to where you began. Expectations remain high and somehow it almost becomes a matter of honour. I wonder if Samant’s family know how the money the postman brings is earned.
Just this morning, as I drove to work, a police tow van was towing away two cycle rickshaws, and the two owners ran behind the van pleading for mercy. I believe that some ply without licenses and that is considered illegal. I also wondered whether any of the two had a heart rendering story to share.